


ghost in the mirror.

by eoghainy



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/M, Hints of other characters, M/M, Slight Hallucinations, at least two nsfw memories, chris is dramatic honestly and overreacts like a dumb boi, dramatic chris, hints of jill/chris, i am Trash tm, i swear i love him, like always, no memories, okay but hints of wesker/chris, six months of being drunk, traumatic injury stimulates memory return process slightly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-10 16:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11130273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: i’m more afraid than ever,my feet have led me straight into my grave.oh lord, have you walked away?oh lord, have you walked away from me?





	ghost in the mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> title and the summary comes from the song glass heart hymn by paper route.
> 
> so, this kinda got way longer than i originally intended it to. i just almost felt as if more light should have been shed upon what chris went through during those six months? & besides, i needed an excuse to write for my dramatic son again. it was a bit difficult to write because it's not my usual pretense, but i enjoyed the challenge.
> 
> please, lemme know if you enjoyed! feedback is appreciated! 
> 
> also, also, if there are typos pls point them out & i shall immediately fix them. this was done during running on a few days little to no sleep, so there are bound to be things that seem out of place, and just lemme know ! xx

Blood trickles down from a brand new split in chapped lips, wearing a new track in cool skin. The icy ground underneath him is cold and nearly unbearably hard, but the man still presses back against it, twisted shock filling him from head to toe. He’s surprised; he hasn’t been hit like that in what feels like _forever_ , and for some reason, it makes him feel _good_. The blood beneath his skin pulsed hotly, a mingling sense of rage and hinting edges of desperation making his muscles grow taut. 

A sense of something more, something bigger than himself, begins to grip him in the steel claws, refusing to let him go. His body longs to lunge to its feet, fingers curled into his palms and fists swinging wildly. Something akin to self - control slips through the drunk as he raised his arm, instead touching the blood that had quickly grown cold. Already frozen upon his skin, he had to use the brunt force of his nail to peel it off, the skin underneath stinging. The sting was quickly forgotten.

“Was the punch necessary?” His voice drawls in a tone filled to the brim with arrogance and disinterest. “’S been a long time since I’ve felt somethin’ sting me in such a way.” He braces his hands upon the frost covered gravel, feeling the cool, jagged layer bite into his palms once he applied pressure, managing to gracelessly maneuver himself into a upright position. The world sways, and for a moment his stomach clenches as bile rises. “But that’s all it was; a small sting, much like the bite of a _flea_.” 

The man that had punched him took a moment to translate his words, reacting badly once he had figured out the layered insult that the alcoholic gave. Based on something that was a bit more than instinct, the drunk shoved himself back, shakily managing to get to his feet and twist his body out of the way of a blow from a booted foot that would have fractured a rib. A whoosh of air flies past his ear, just narrowly managing to miss his face as he moves just a fraction to the left. If there was one thing that this man knew about himself aside from his deep need for alcohol, to fight, and to fuck, it was that he had to be some sort of fucking super soldier at some point in his life. He didn’t fuck around in fights; once danger presented itself, he would immediately slip into some sort of mode that made him wonder a bit more about who the fuck he was, and why the fuck he had such sudden and harsh reactions.

Regardless, the alcoholic swings out a blow of his own, his left leg sweeping neatly against the other mans knee. The enraged man, temporarily crippled, made a gasping noise as he hit the ground. But, he too seemed to have superior knowledge of being able to defend himself, and his right hand lashed out with something that flashed silver far faster than the drunks mind could stand to comprehend. Briefly, the freezing steel was embedded within his hot flesh, twisting and tearing before it ripped right back out almost as soon as it entered. Quick and clean.

In the bitterness of the cold air, it didn’t immediately register that  his jacket and his turtleneck had been breached by the silver flash. A hot sensation seemed to spread down his abdomen, and immediately his thick shirt seemed to cling to his skin, bound by his own blood. He was convinced that he had seen a few glimpses of steam from he hit blood meeting the cold air, but his mind was prone to playing tricks upon him. Hallucinations were not uncommon in his life. He had been stabbed. Great, what an amazing fucking addition to his already fucked up day. 

“You got me,” he says, his voice a croaking rasp. An incredulous chuckle escapes his lips. “You fuckin’ got me. Proud?”

The stranger spits something at him in the same strange language, and the drunk shrugs.

“Ain’t got no clue what the fuck you’re blabbin’ on ‘bout.” He says, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. That same hand falls to the bank of snow where his bottle of vodka had fallen before he had been clocked, numb fingers wrapping around the neck and hoisting it to his hip. Staggering, he takes his leave from the alley, not bothering with an attempt to staunch the bleeding. To be fucking frank, he didn’t give a shit. Blood sloshed out from the wound, going _splat_ against the frosty ground, the crimson looking oddly ominous and stark against the white.

The stagger back to his rathole of an apartment was tough, pain beginning to grip the stray dog enough to make his already unsteady pace even slower. Once he was sure that he was out of sight completely, his free hand managed to slide amongst the rip in his shirt and his jacket, cold calloused hand pressing down loosely against the wound. An involuntary hiss of pain gives him a reason to take a long sip from the vodka bottle, relishing the burn it sparked within his throat. 

His struggle up the rickety stairs was long, and he dripped blood all over the landing once he reached the top. A bloody handprint was left upon the wall when he reached towards it for balance, reluctant to let go of the bottle for fear of wasting one drop of the precious substance. This man was bleeding out, and he cared more about his goddamned vodka than himself. His priorities were definitely in order. He fumbled with digging his key out of his pocket for about five minutes before managing to shove it in the lock, using brute force to make the lock turn. With a quick shove of his hip, he managed to push the door open, barely managing to keep his balance.  

This apartment was absolutely disgusting, a true shithole in this awful, cold, hellish area in the fucking world. But it was cheap, affordable, and he could just drink twenty - four seven without anyone getting on his case. The woman he had left in his bed earlier during his desperate search for food and eventual wander out to the bar was still there; he could see her leg in the shadows of his room straight down the hall. Everything looked remotely untouched, just as he had left it.

As soon as he stepped inside and past the detonating front door his senses were attacked by the rank stench of tobacco, alcohol, must, old coffee, rotting food, and a hint of what he could only peg as mold. This place was fucking disgusting, and he couldn’t say it enough. If he had any motivation to keep it clean, he’d get off his fucking ass and do it, but he had nothing inside of him driving him to create a healthy environment for himself. For example? Food continues to rot in the barely functioning fridge, because he can’t bring himself to clean. Cigarettes are lit in the apartment and extinguished on any surface that isn’t flammable, because he is too lazy to go outside. Coffee is made and mixed with any liquor is in arms reached, because he’s a fucking drunk. Alcohol is sloshed drunkly across every surface in this hellhole unintentionally, thus making everything reek, _because he was a fucking drunk_. This had become his life. 

What a sad, pathetic, disgusting mess he was. 

There was a first aid kit just lying amuck on the counter because of how many fights he got into, just ready to be used, yet the drunk didn’t go for it just yet. Instead, he nursed his half - filled bottle for a moment longer, making his way over to it when he decided he was finally ready. He had to brave the cold, stagnant air of his apartment when taking off his jacket and pulling up his shirt, deft fingers fumbling as they grabbed a needle and the thread from the open kit. The hem of his shirt was placed between his teeth, being used as a support for him to bite down upon. Disinfectant momentarily forgotten, the alcoholic set to work upon stitching the wound up himself, his groans and hisses being muffled by the thick fabric. Every few loops he had to stop, taking a quick swig of the vodka, and then forced himself to resume.

Whatever else he knew about himself, at the very _least_ he knew he had military background, or some fucking medical background. His hands were uncharacteristically steady as he stitched the wound up in a sloppy manner. When he was finished and had knotted the thread off, he forced himself to rub disinfectant against the angry looking wound, unable to bite back a hiss of pain. If he got an infection, then that’d just suck for him, wouldn’t it? Fuck it. It didn’t matter. He could only hope that the infection got bad enough to kill him and end his suffering before he snapped and goaded someone else into killing him.

But, regardless: the common person didn’t know how to dismantle guns and put them back together in less than a minute, how to to twist knives around fluidly to embed them within someone else’s skin, how to take care of their own wounds in such a way that they didn’t require a doctor, or know how to find someones weak points and take them down within fucking seconds. If he wasn’t some super soldier, then it had to be military. 

Polishing off the rest of the liquor, the alcoholic left the empty bottle upon the grubby counter, stripping off his jacket and torn shirt as he headed back to his room. They were abandoned haphazardly in the hall, and he grabbed a dirty sweatshirt that smelled of bile and reeked of sweat. He didn’t care as he pulled it over his head, yanking the hem down enough to cover most of his torso. Either he had gotten fatter, or it had shrunk at some point, for it felt too small and tight around his bulky frame. Again, it didn’t matter. He’d probably chuck it as soon as he woke up because of the stench.

Exhausted from his fight earlier and frozen to the bone, the man with no damn clue as to who he was fell down upon his mattress (which couldn’t even fucking be qualified as a mattress, it was so firm and small), hardly managing to bounce the woman who was still fast asleep. For a moment, he feared that she had died or some shit, but she heaved a sigh and rolled over, her pale hair spilling over across her chest. She had been fun that previous night, but he wished that she would just wake up and get the fuck out of his apartment. One night stands were only _one night_ for a fucking reason, did the dumb broad not understand that shit? 

Folding his arms over his chest with a sullen grunt, the man exhaled, quickly letting the darkness pull him under.

* * *

_“Yer’ green, boy.”_

The words are sharp, unfamiliar, belonging to a voice that is worn down by the history of many fights, of seeing too many things to be considered sane. He has the look of a father, a husband, a commander, a soldier, and he’s not tolerating any smack that could come from his subordinates mouth. 

His face hovers over his own, creased with hard lines. Eyes that were as sharp as flint gaze down at him, and his face feels as if its on fire. _Fire, fire_ , his brain chants, and that’s all he can see in this mans eyes. Blood. Blood is all he tastes as he chokes upon it, surprise gripping him and rendering him still upon the hard ground. Gravel digs into his bare arms. Soft grass tickles his skin, soothing the initial marks the gravel made. What festers within his mind towards this man? Hatred for showing him up, or is it respect for putting him in his place? His gaze locks upon the wedding band on the mans left hand ring finger, studying it, avoiding his gaze until his voice breaks the silence.

_“Seventeen is t’ young t’ be in this line of work. Pick yerself up, boy. Ya’ ain’t gettin’ off easy.”_

Words aren’t in the right order. They sound choppy, broken, as if his brain is purposely cutting some of the dialogue out. As quickly as this memory popped up, it changes. 

The hand that hit him is the same hand that now grips his shoulder as his body trembles, retching into a scenery of green. He’s broken out into a sheen of cold sweat, body trembling with the effort, lungs refusing to cooperate with him as he fights for his breath back. 

 _“Finish up, boy,”_ the mans voice is harsh and rough, but there’s an underlying hint of tenderness that he hadn’t heard before. His head is spinning. All he can see are body parts, raw bones surrounded by shredded tendons and muscles, entrails, and oh _god_ he’s retching again. Nothing remains in his stomach so all he can do is dry heave, trying not to show too much weakness in front of his superior. But he’s sick, fucking sick, and he’s only seventeen and he can’t take this. He can’t take the gore, can’t take the death of his fellow soldiers, he can’t be anything but _green_. This man — whose name still remains a mystery to him — is right. He’s a boy. He’s not fit for this. He never will be.

 _“I nearly puked the first time, t’, boy,”_ a soft tone grips him. _“I would have, if gun fire hadn’t come rainin’ down ‘pon us. You ain’t the first, or the last, green boy t’ start retchin’ in the middle of the mission. Yer’ just lucky that it’s happenin’ now and not in the midst of danger, boy.”_

 _“Stop calling me boy,”_ he manages to gasp out. Bile threads from his lips, and he shudders. _“My name is —”_

The mans arms are wrapped around him now as the world shudders, his grip like vice as he holds him back. He can tell that it’s the same man for he spots the wedding band upon his finger, the golden band that has made it through hell. He’s struggling to break free, wild noises bursting from the depths of his throat, but this man whom he has an unending amount of respect for is holding him back. He can hear his voice in his ear, feel his breath hot upon his skin. 

_“Stop! Stop! You ain’t gonna die, not like this! Quit yer’ strugglin’! Ya’ didn’t make it this far t’ die here! The world needs ya’, stop!”_

And then he’s collapsing, a mess upon the ground, being held up by the man who put him in his place. The tears are wild and hot and unbearable, and the sounds that pull from him are confusing, to say in the least. He doesn’t sound like this, he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t _break down_. He’s held up by this man, his arms still locked in that unbreakable grip, and the mans whispering soothing words to him much like a parent would. 

The world seems to narrow and fixate upon one tear that falls from his chin, and he watches through wild bronze hues as it falls. Except, it doesn’t hit the pavement underneath him, but it hits a pillow, dampening and darkening the mauve fabric. The arms and the man disappear from behind him, snd surprisingly, his arms don’t hurt like they should from being held so tightly. The tears that drip down his cheeks now are soft, gentle, and the sound thats restrained in his throat is a choked one. This is an old setting; he’s got a slimmer body, lacking any muscle and strength. He’s young and wild, not yet an adult, but carrying too much weight upon his shoulders.

There’s a girl fast asleep upon the pillow. Her red hair is splayed across the fabric, her face gentle and lacking any crease. She’s holding a picture to her chest. It’s a black and white wedding picture of a women with corkscrew ringlets and a man with cropped short hair. Both of them are smiling at the camera, their hands twined and gazes gleaming with love. The woman is beautiful, with her gentle eyes and her soft face. The man is rougher, a man of of discipline, but his smile is the type that could melt glaciers when it was given genuinely. The picture has been through some damage, for the corners are yellowing and curling, torn and degrading. 

His heart reacts to that picture like no ones business. Grief pulsed through him as roughly as ever, burning him from the inside out. Instinct drives him to reach out and touch the little girls red hair in an attempt to stroke the thick strands, but things changed quickly. He’s getting fucking whiplash from this bullshit.

It’s the same girl kneeling before him, and he’s lowered himself to her level. Her hands are gripping his shoulders and his hand is resting on the back of her head, thumb stroking through the messy strands of her poorly done ponytail, taking in every change that he’s missed out upon over the years. He can feel himself bursting with love and affection, but also paired along with worry and fear. 

Her eyes are blue, as blue as the sky, and her smile is one like the mans in the wedding photo from before. She’s grinning, ecstatic to see him. Something is wrong with her, albeit; her eyes are creased with the same worry that he feels, there’s blood adorning the corner of her lip, and her grip is a bit too tight to be normal. This girl is holding onto him like he’s her savior, like he’s the one who is going to free her from whatever hell this is.

It changes again, and she’s wrapped up in his arms, her hair tickling his face and his shoulder damp. Her fingers are like claws as they dig into his bullet - proof vest, and her sobs are loud. His own gaze is caught upon the body not too far from them, the one after it’s mutilation, limp and lifeless. 

 _“We have to go,”_ his own voice is soft, lacking it’s usual rough edge. _“We can’t stay here. We have to go. We have to leave.”_ His hand strokes the back of her head like before, caressing her, holding her gently and so close. He feels she’s precious to him, and it tears him apart to see her like this, to hold her as she loses herself in grief. But her body begins to fall apart in his hands, her sobs drifting off with the wind.

 _“_ _You can’t do that! Stay here, stay with me, god damnit, don’t leave me!”_ Her voice, deeper now, fine with maturity, but still recognizable. Her hands are firm upon his side, and he feels blood pulsing against her palms. His blood. He’s okay, though, he feels it; the bullet grazed his side. There would be no permanent damage. _She_ doesn’t know that, albeit, but he can’t find the strength to laugh, to reassure her.

 _“Stop trying to sit up —”_ She pleads, but he swipes his bloody thumb across her cheek. Each movement is not his own as he offers her a cocky grin, barely managing to mask the pain, yet still forcing himself to regain his footing. She’s giving him an incredulous look, seeming to bristle like a fucking animal, but his own confidence in himself and stubbornness is enough to push him forward. She’s hovering at his side, her hands held out to catch him in case he fell. 

 _“See, all good!_ ” He crows, managing to keep himself upon his feet. He’s trembling. He can barely stand, yet he’s doing it, just to prove a point to this girl. This girl who looks at him with love and concern, who gives him her hand, who offers him the smallest of smiles. _“I can survive gunshots, C —”_

Everything changes. The blood and the pain faded, as well as the feeling of the redheads hand within his own. Her face is a constant at first, shining amongst the darkness, but then it begins to blur. All he can hear in his ears is a sound akin to that of television static, and her face begins to wink out of existence. Instinctively he throws his arm out towards her fading, blurred image, desperately trying to feel the warmth of her skin against his own, trying to get her to _stay_ , because for some reason, he feels like there’s something there, that there’s a reason why his heart feels as if it’s splitting in two, as if she is someone who means the fucking world to him. He wants to scream after her, beg her to return, but deep down he knows that she cannot hear him and that his voice is alone here.

Eyes. Eyes are pale as chips of ice begin to come into existence, shining like beacons amongst the darkness. These eyes are alluring, shocking, so void of _fucking color_ that it feels as if he’s frozen to his core. These eyes are staring at him with a mixture of emotions, as if they can’t seem to understand why he’s there in front of them, why he’s suddenly holding onto a woman’s arm so tightly. Her body begins to come into the light, lean and swaddled in dark leather, eyes fixated upon him. She’s changing, constantly, never looking the same to him. 

Her hair up, her hair down, her bangs short, her bangs gone. Her hair blonde, her hair brown. Blonde. Brown. Blonde. Brown. Blonde. Brown. _Blonde! Brown! Blonde!_

The one thing that remains the same, always, is her eyes. She’s changing, always changing, but those eyes don’t change. They always stare at him, as if piercing through the layers of skin, muscle and bone, staring right down into his soul. She seems to be studying him, watching him, examining him and picking him apart piece by piece.

When he truly registers that it’s another woman that he does know, they’re separated by a heavy, decrepit door with an opening at the top, but barred by three wide steel bars. His hands are flush against the door, peering into it’s inside, viewing the woman with the unusual eyes as she sits despairingly upon the grimy bed with her cap clutched in her grasp. When she sees him, she’s on her feet, throwing herself against the door, her fingers sliding between the bars. His own move to rest upon hers, seeking the comfort of her touch, doing a quick once - over of her to ensure that she’s not injured.

Her mouth moves, and she says something, but he can’t tell what it is that she says. He can’t hear her. Her lips move but no noise comes from her and he’s so _frustrated_ and yet, she soothes. One touch from her is enough to make him sink his teeth into his tongue, bearing through yet another change that makes his head spin.

She’s trapped beneath him, chanting his name voicelessly like a mantra. Her slim hands, calloused and rough and strong from years of work, map his chest, his shoulders, sliding up to curl around the nape of his neck. His hands are gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her skin hard enough to leave bruises, keeping a few inches of distance between them. She’s warm, she’s familiar, she’s intoxicating and _fuck_ he wants to kiss her. Her hand is the one guiding his lips closer to her own, and he can taste the cinnamon upon her breath, feel her lips grace against his own, and then it’s all gone.

Her hands are down at her sides, and he’s stalking away, all the equipment attached to him rattling with each movement. She can hear him calling a name, pleading with him to return back to her. He can feel her hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn back and look at her, but it doesn’t last, for he’s pressed up against what feels like a window sill and her words turn to a strangled shriek, and she’s starting to fall, falling, _falling_ endlessly. Glass is digging into his thighs, through his cargo pants and into his skin. All he can hear is the shattering of glass and _her_. She’s pulling him with her, his fingers tight around his wrist like iron, guiding his body from the safety of the frame and the pain of the glass, pulling him into the crushing blackness that she disappears into. Even her eyes, so startling and so beautiful, are swallowed up by the abyss, but he can hear her shrieks still. They’re falling for forever, her screams ringing in his ears, twisted with fear and agony, and they never _end_. Why won’t they _end_? He can’t take it, he can’t listen to another sound that comes from her throat. 

_“Don’t you trust your . . .?”_

Her voice, dizzying and alluring, lilted and wondrous, doesn’t finish her sentence. What’s that next word? The unfinished sentence is ringing in his ears. The words are mingled with her screams of terror, and again, they’re still falling. He can feel her hand on his shoulder, but she’s no where near him. He can feel the weight of her against him paired with the sensation of falling, hear her unfinished words within the confines of his head, but hear her shrieks within his ears. He wants to hit. He wants to land. He wants to hit, so badly, he wants this to be _over_. No longer can he stand listening to her.

_Why won’t he hit the fucking ground?_

His wishes were granted, for his world began to brighten with color. He’s falling past an impossibly large figure, one holding himself so stiffly and so properly. His hair is sickened in place, no strand sticking up and out of place anywhere. Eyes are covered by sunglasses, and his pale lips are drawn into a fine line. No part of his face is creased, and he’s impossibly attractive, inhumanly rigid. His undershirt is blue and adorned with a logo that he cannot make out, a bullet - proof vest covering his chest, and he’s moving, drawing his gun and holding it right at his face. There’s a glint of red that he thinks he imagined in those sunglasses, but it begins to grow, the mans eyes becoming like two red suns, consuming all that lays within it’s path.

Overwhelming feelings of white - hot rage, betrayal, grief, and _hurt_ swirls around within him as he battles with his emotions, trying his damnedest to bury them. The man is holding a gun at the small girl beside him, and there’s an impossibly loud _bang_ , and the girl collapses upon her back, eyes closed and her body still. The gun is pointed at him and his heart is in throat and he can’t _breathe_ , betrayal and grief choking him, robbing him of his fucking words. He’s only watching as those practiced fingers fly over keys, hitting each one in turn, activating something that makes the fluid in a tube begin to drain. The monster that is dwelling within it’s confines is beginning to stir, subtly, and the grin upon the mans face is all fucking teeth. It’s white and it’s broad and it’s _emotionless_ , but there’s an underlying hint of pride that makes him burn red with an unreasonable sense of envy.

But, oh, the tides have turned and things have changed drastically. That same man is staring at him, their gazes locked in something that’s dangerously intimate but allows him the knowledge that this, this is where he dies. He’s staring down through the sights on his pistol, lining up his shots professionally, finger squeezing the trigger before he’s focusing on the next point. The man is moving impossibly fast, avoiding each bullet — purposely allowing them to get close before he dashes to the left, to the right, down the center, ever drawing closer and closer to him. His eyes are red, so red, and his pupils slitted like a cats, and he’s _whispering_ something. There’s a sickening upturn to right corner of his lip, his mouth forming the name of someone, and then his leather - clad hand is wrapped around his neck.

Fingers are curling around his throat, squeezing mercilessly. Darkness dances across his vision, and he’s tempted to give in, to allow himself to succumb to the blackness that seems too familiar for him. His lungs constrict, burning, beginning to fight instinctively for air. His mind wants to stop, wants to quit it’s seemingly endless fight, but his traitorous instincts kick into gear. His hands are clawing at the gloved fists, fingernails attempting to dig in, to reach skin, to tear and to rip and to _claw_ his way out, but then the fists grow lax, and the darkness flees his vision as quickly as it appears. His lungs fill halfway with delicious air, and he’s gasping against this man, but his small moment for a reprieve is taken away as those fists close yet again.

His body thrashes, his shoulders and his back slamming into the hard wall, legs lashing out in front of him in a desperate attempt to make contact. Hit the mans ribs. Hit the mans hips. Hit the mans abdomen. He’s trying so hard, so hard to get him to loosen his grip, to be able to fucking _break free_ , but his task is an impossible one for this man, this creature, this seemingly superhuman man, has kept enough space between their bodies so that he cannot make contact. His strength is beginning to fail as the darkness begins to congregate again, beginning to form a solid black mass, and waves of pain begin to crash into him. Everything aches. His lungs are on fire. His throat is closed so thoroughly that he can’t fight anymore, that he can’t function. All he can hear is laughter, maniac laughter, and the pressure seems to get _tighter_ — 

 _Crash_. Screaming. Glass digging into his thighs, through the thick fabric of his cargo pants. He’s watching as the duo fall. One with eyes as pale as chips of ice, and one with eyes burning scarlet. One is showing fear, one is showing rage. It’s not the same. It’s not the same. It’s not the same. It’s not the same. It’s not the same. It’s not the same — 

Together, their forms begin to intertwine into one. Their body begins to mutate into something awfully horrific, their skin darkening in shade until it became disgustingly raw and red. Something begins to grow upon its tough hide, a multitude of dark colors, something akin to spikes beginning to dig out of what he could only guess is a shell. It’s legs are thick and meaty, long, and it’s toes are curled into the cement flooring. All he can see is this creature and the solid floor underneath, but he can hear a voice raised in panic behind him.

_“. . . —need to go!”_

He’s frozen, shoved up against what feels like cool bars, his arm shoved through the thin spacing before he’s being pulled back. A hand is firm on his vest and the gate pulls up, rocketing into the ceiling that didn’t seem to exist above their heads, and the creature is running at them. It’s legs that look too thick to gain any speed are moving faster than he could have ever imagined it could, claws grating upon the floor and the entire room seeming as if it was trembling. The noises were too much for his ears, and he’s trying to back up, he’s trying to _escape_ , but it swoops him up, huffing and snarling so loudly, it’s breath hot upon his skin and it slams him against a solid surface — a wall?

He’s being struck again and again and _again_. He can feel the impact of it’s harsh blows against him. His ribs are shattering, the fragments of bone catching within the exterior walls of his organs. His head is slamming against the hard surface, and then against the concrete beneath them as air _whooshes_ around him, and his body isn’t held in an unbearable grasp any longer. But as his eyes clench tightly shut and as his mouth opens in a soundless cry of pain, all he can see behind his closed eyelids is a boy. He’s young, too young, eyes wild with terror as his hand reaches out, trying to make contact. 

 _“No one gets left behind.”_ It’s his voice, soothing and calm.

The boy begins to burst into flame. 

_“No one gets left behind.”_

His body seems to become encased in something vile and disgusting, the exterior looking yellow and reeking of decay.

_“No one gets left behind.”_

That creature that initially appeared before burst forth, it’s heavy steps rattling the room.

_“No one gets left behind.”_

Someone is dragging him, their hand hooked around the back of his vest, gunfire sounding impossibly distant in the background as the creature mercilessly throws itself after them.

_“No one gets left behind.”_

Eyes that are green, border - lining upon hazel, are gazing down upon him hardly, but amusement glimmers within their depths. His lips are turned down, just slightly, yet he seems to be fighting back a string of laughter. Was he told a bad joke? Possibly. This man is a boy, pretty in his own respect, but the horrors of what he has done, what he has seen, clings to his no longer soft features like thick webs of scar tissue. 

As per the fashion of this fucking _trip_ , his face changed. He’s splattered with blood and his mouth is opened in a scream, yelling something as his finger holds down the trigger. He’s firing rapidly and struggling to keep his aim straight, but he breaks off and dives to the left, hiding behind several crates and holding his side. There’s gunfire from all sides. Blood is beading upon this young boys side, and his hand touches the wound one of the stray bullets made, fingers trembling. He’s calm, very calm, despite the fact that the blood is beginning to pool underneath him. 

 _“Go on without me,”_ the boy says, his voice young and inexperienced. He’s straining against his own fear, though he’s struggling to stay calm, attempting to convince himself that he’d be fine.

 _“No one gets left behind.”_ His own voice is thick with promise, and his hand wrapped around the others wrist, hauling him up to his feet and bearing his weight as if it was nothing. _“No one gets left behind.”_ He says these words like a prayer, like they’re all that he can afford to cling to, and for once he feels that these words are right, that they’re his own. _“No one gets left behind.”_ He hears within his mind, his voice soft, twisting with an edge that he didn’t understand. Is it bitterness, or perhaps it’s a sick sense of hate? Whatever it is, the words begin to lose their soothing nature. _“No one gets left behind.”_

The memories that were so much easier upon his body and his mind were stripped away horrifically. Different memories, various ones that made absolutely no sense in his distorted mind, whip across his brain uncontrollably. He’s being forced to watch things that he knew he experienced, but didn’t have any conscious memory of. It’s painful, too painful, he can’t bear it any longer.

Dogs teeth are wrapped in the corded bicep muscle in his left arm, digging deep into his flesh and scraping against bone. He can hear shrieks splitting from his mouth as his finger presses against a cool trigger wildly, bullets firing out in every direction. Blood and infectious saliva is hot against his exposed flesh, and with a grotesque tearing noise, the decaying creature falls from it’s awkward perch. Blood is frothing at it’s lips, it’s tongue wrapping around the hunk of flesh within it’s small, razor - sharp front teeth and drawing it further into its mouth, never removing it’s rolling, wild gaze form his. In an instant, the gun goes off, and the creature is on the floor, dead, blood seeping out across the tiled floor.

It’s years later, and the wound is just a cratered scar. The flesh and muscle will never grow completely back, but it’s done a good job of healing itself. Except, the only thing is that he’s holding a needle against his skin, dipped in dark ink, tattooing the initials _C.R._ on top of the scar, exhaling in sharp hisses every time the needle strikes a sensitive point. A face flashes before his mind, fleeting and sudden, but she’s beautiful and familiar and _comforting._

He’s getting sick from how fast the memories are coming now.

There’s a girl on top of him, her nails digging into his chest and making deep gouges within his skin. He’s gasping and holding onto her hips in a punishing grip, murmuring her name like it’s the only word he knows. Her hair is white blonde and curling from the perspiration, her eyes as dark as the starless night sky above them. Their movements are clumsy and a bit too rough, but she’s riding him well and he’s thrusting into her and hitting that one spot just _right_ , it doesn’t matter that it’s their first time, that it was an awkward buildup, because all that matters is that they’ve solidified their bond to each other. And when she gives a trilling little gasp, her body clenches around him and he _moans_ , subtly forgotten, and grabs her a little harder, moving up to press their lips together in a desperate, awkward, inexperienced kiss that seems to engulf him from head to toe. His voice is raspy and strained when he hears it next, but he sounds satisfied and absolutely in love. 

_“We’ll spend the rest of our lives together.”_

_“I can only hope,”_ her own voice mirroring his in exhaustion, her body pressed in along his own, shuddering as his hand draws up and down her spine, pressing against each vertebrae as slides his hand past them. _“I can only hope.”_

His voice again, but this time, he’s sounding as if he’s utterly exhausted and he can’t handle the way his life has gone, and he’s looking into her beautiful tear - filled eyes and feeling his heart rip to shreds as he whispers to her, _“my life belongs to someone else now. Here is where we end.”_

He’s in a car now, riding along in the back seat, world spinning in a sickening way as eyes look at him through the rearview mirror. Bronze and blue, looking at him in disappointment and anger, worry and love. _“We love you despite this blip,”_ the woman says, but the mans voice overlaps and says instead, _“kiss your license, and your freedom, goodbye.”_

A bar surrounds him and there’s laughter everywhere. Members press in against him at all sides, people laughing and talking and _celebrating_ something. The man from his first set of memories is there, knocking back a beer, his arm looped around a woman’s shoulders and his face pressed into her hair. His wedding ring gleams. Someone is shaking his shoulder and laughing loudly, talking about their sparring session earlier, and how the rookie had totally kicked their asses in the shooting range without much effort at all. The man with the sunglasses looks on with subtle distaste, his lips pulled down in the corners, eyebrows knitted.

The man with sunglasses is now pressed against him, lips attached to his neck, teeth pulling at his skin hard enough to leave bruises. Hands are sinfully tight against his bare hips, the leather of his protective gloves an unfamiliar sensation against his skin. Lockers are hard and cool against his back, the grooves digging into his shoulders, promising to leave marks come when he’s finally released from this situation. He’s falling apart in this mans grip, shamelessly rutting down upon the knee that’s between his legs, only stopping when a commanding voice sends chills down his spine. He’s frozen, chest heaving, fearing retribution if he dared indulge himself in more friction. But he’s wanted like this before, and he _wants_ again, and damn right he’s going to beg for it if he has to.

Around him the world spins, and with a _crash_ he hits the flooring underneath him, the back of the chair he’s strapped into splintering from the force of impact. He’s hardly allowed to take a breath before there’s a damp cloth being thrown carelessly over his face, and stinging liquid is poured upon his head. It mimics the horrific feeling of drowning, and a strangled shriek manages to peel it’s way from his throat, but it’s lost within the sounds of the liquid splashing against the ground underneath him and pooling. His nasal passages and his throat _burn_ , along with his eyes and his flesh. He can’t breathe, but he won’t fucking _break_. The information is too precious to him, too important, too dangerous to release. Drown him all they fucking want but he won’t shatter, no, for he knows that there are already people on the way for him, to take him away and get him help in order to recover.

Arms are slung around his shoulders, and two guys are beside him, laughing away. The image begins to become blurred and static - y like a show on a poor television station, and he sees the truth. The one on his left is slumped over on a chair, his face having been steadily pecked away at, lips peeled back over his teeth and eyelids gone. He’s rigid from being deceased for so long, and he’s beginning to permeate a sickly sweet smell, stinging the insides of his nostrils and making his stomach roil. He feels that this man is his friend, a very close friend of his, and he forces himself to look right — finding that the situation on this side is no better. The other man, another friend and another corpse, is lying upon a pile of dead leaves that look as if they’re dampened by rain, but in reality it’s blood. His throat is one gory mess from whatever had ripped it out, and his eyes are glazed, forever blank and unseeing. Blood is splattered all across his face, and his hands are cupped gently at his neck, fingers missing and showing as scarlet stumps.

The memories are coming faster, faster, _faster_. He’s pouring a girl with short, dark hair frilly drinks, and she’s laughing at some cheesy joke he’s stated. He’s out in the wilderness with the man with the sunglasses and the girl with the eyes as pale as shards of ice, soaked to the bone, ignoring them as they take amusement from his expense. He’s throwing a football with a bunch of guys, grabbing a beer can as he goes, taking a quick pull before intercepting a throw and hearing cheers erupt from his teammates. His gun is firing rapidly at a shambling corpse, fear freezing his limbs, but fingers moving of their own accord. Grief is heavy in his heart as he beats down upon a piano, grand and beautiful, looking oddly out of place in a bright living room that is too neat, too clean. It’s too much. It’s too much. It’s too much. _It’s too much it’s too much it’s too much it’stoomuchit’stoomuchit’stoomuchit’stoomuchit’stoomuchit’stoomuchit’stoomuchit’stoomu c h —_

The man with no name wakes with a sudden start, his heart pounding wildly within his chest. Gasping, sweaty, and desperate for a reprieve from the nightmares he suffered through just moments ago, he rolls off the bed in a stiff manner, his gaze desperately searching for the glowing red numbers of his alarm clock. What time was it? _Fuck_ , how long had he been out? During his frantic search, he had noticed that the woman in his bed was gone, but it didn’t matter. He was going to fucking _vomit_.

On his way to the crummy, small as fuck bathroom that could hardly fit one person, the alcoholic managed to rip off the stupid sweatshirt with minimal trouble, yet managing to pull on his stitches in the process. He relented a pained gasp as he dropped heavily to his knees beside the toilet, hardly having a moment to take a fucking breath before his throat closed and bile rose. Coughing, heaving, and trying his hardest not to choke, the man coughed up the last of the bile before he rested his head down upon the lip of the toilet seat, eyes scrunched up tightly, trying to recall the last bits of his dream with major difficulty. 

Nothing came to mind.

Though he was shaken and his body felt as if it had crawled through hell and back all without his consent, he couldn’t draw up any idea of what his traumatized brain had been through. As he struggled more and more to focus upon the wisps of memory that were rapidly escaping him, he found that he was denied, his skull beginning to throb too painfully for him to continue.

Resting there, he let his forehead linger upon the lip a little longer before he finally worked up the strength to flush. Sweatshirt forgotten, he rummaged around in the pile of clothes that were in the corner of his ridiculously small bathroom, pulling out a stained and dirty smelling wifebeater that was off white from lack of washing. The pits were stained yellow, and there were crimson stains upon the stomach. It immediately clung to his damp skin, and miraculously, it almost felt _soothing_ against his stitches. He could feel that the wound was beginning to swell a tad and it felt aggravated from how he had pulled on it ten minutes ago, but he could stand to give less of a shit. 

More comfortable now that he had had a shirt on, he moved in front of the dusty mirror, turning on the faucet and let the water run warm. Without thinking, he turned the light switch on after a moment as well, filling the small room with a soft buzzing and watery, weak light. Enough to see, but enough to make him wish that he had the sense to go out and get new lightbulbs. He was freezing, oddly enough, and the cold air that was coming in through the crumbling plaster of the apartment wasn’t doing much to help conserve heat. Once the water was warm enough, he splashed it across his face, scrubbing away the last of the discomfort and the sickness. He ended up wrapping his lips around the tap to dispel the taste of bile from his mouth with the metallic water. Rinsing his mouth out thoroughly and spitting the water out, he turned the water off and stood back, looking at himself in the mirror.

The only thing that remained familiar to him was his physical appearance. His square jaw, high, sharp cheekbones, eyebrows always drawn together in some bitter expression. His eyes are always the same, bronze, one of them having a unique ring around the pupil. He has a scar lining the curve along the left side of his forehead, another scar underneath his bottom lip on the right side, and a scar underneath his right ear, hidden in the shadow of his lobe. Stubble lined thickly along his face. It was dusted with silver, showing that he had been taking on age. The start of wrinkles began to fan out around his eyes and between his brows, and especially on his forehead. He didn’t look young, that much was for sure, but he wasn’t looking too old just yet.

Raising his arm to run his hand through his tufted, short hair, the man froze, narrowing his gaze as it’s drawn to the scar on his bicep. It wasn’t much of a scar but more like a crater, as if something had sank his teeth into his flesh and _ripped_ the muscle and flesh right out without fail. It’s discolored, rough to the touch, but the most interesting thing about it was that there was a tattoo there that he hadn’t noticed before. _C.R._ Were those letters initials? Confused, he grazed his fingers over them, focusing real hard on them, hoping — no, _praying_ — that his mind was give in and allow a memory to wash over him.

Nothing. 

 _C.R._. . . They had to mean something to somebody, right? That was why he had them to begin with, wasn’t it? If he were smart, he’d do a check online upon the scars and the tattoos he had along his body, but he didn’t claim to be smart. Besides, his pride prevented him from doing such a thing to begin with. He was stubborn enough to want to remember his former life on his own, not with the help of the fucking internet.

Dragging his hands down his face to dispel the last of the water, the drunk reached for a pathetic excuse of a towel, freezing when something red glinted in the peripherals of his vision. At first he thought he had opened up a wound on his face, perhaps the one on his lip, but when he studied it, there was no blood. Letting out an angered snort, he turned away and made for the towel again, but stopped when the glint grew more dangerous and bright.

His eyes, always bronze and dark, were no longer as such. The iris that had once been so familiar to him was now strange, glinting scarlet. Pupils were unusually small and flat, no emotion showing in the slightest. Cold. Callous. Blank. Empty. 

Shocked, he watched as more of himself began to change. His lips begin to lengthen and flatten, being pressed into a fine line. Eyebrows become thin and pale as a crease appears between them. HIs face seems to become more sharp and angular as the hair atop his head becomes smoothed down, not a strand out of place, brightening in color until it becomes a silvery blond. The color he managed to retain from whatever the fuck he had been doing before he ended up in this shithole evaporated within a moment, being replaced by a pale pallor that fit his new features extraordinarily well. Bulk disappeared and his body became slender, yet remained lean. He was all length and height, his power hidden within his body. The last of his new appearance evened out as the winkles and the stubble dispersed into nothingness, his skin smoothing out completely and looking ageless. He was clean - shaven, respectable, professional, but it was the _wrong face_.

His mouth flicked up into a cruel smile without his consent, revealing flat, pearly white teeth that looked as if they’d tear him apart without any hesitation. No emotion reached those cold, blank, empty eyes.

Minute reaction took hold and his fist moved of it’s own accord, slamming directly into the mirror, shattering the illusion and the glass. In the shards that remained in the frame, he found that he had gone back to normal. No red eyes. No blond hair. No pale skin. No timeless appearance. He’s his drunk self again and he’s in _pain_ , forced to cradle his fist against his chest and cursing. More blood is spilling out and staining his tank, but he can’t care. 

Wrapping his injured fist up in the towel and cursing, he just barely remembered to turn off the light before he heads back out towards his bedroom, muttering about how he needs a fucking drink. It’s completely dark in this hell, and when he peeks out through his blackout curtains, he can see that there’s no sun in the sky, so it must be late, or early in the morning. Either way, he doesn’t care. He’s not due to go back to the bar for a few more hours at the very least. And by then, he can find another catch to bring home, fuck, blow, _whatever,_ and forget about what happened before.

Finding a mostly - filled bottle of rum that was almost all the way underneath his bed, he screws off the cap and takes a swig, resisting the urge to pull a face when it burns his mouth and upsets his already upset stomach. Rather than bother with rifling through his cabinets and depressingly empty fridge to find something that would be easier for him to digest, he sits back on the bed again, scrubbing a hand over his face. The pads of his fingertips catch over his scruff and he scrubs against it, blunt fingernails scratching at the dry skin. 

As if per instinct, he reaches for the cigarettes on the bedside table whilst managing to balance the bottle between his thighs, needing a second distraction. It takes him only a moment to pull one out of the carton and light it up, taking a quick inhale before following it up with a swig rum. His mind is locked upon the image his brain conjured up within the mirror. Though a strange sense of terror coursed through him at seeing that face, he’s unsure as to how to handle it. _Red eyes_ . . . 

He had seen those eyes before, he was sure of it. Those eyes, that face. It was embedded somewhere within the confines of his broken memory, presumably lost. It was lingering just out of his reach, just too far for him to grasp and latch onto. That face once instilled a sense of pride within him, a sense of love and acceptance, of wondrous admiration and happiness. But, they had also come with the harsher sides; grief, betrayal, fear, even horror. 

Footsteps catch his attention, drawing him from his thoughts. Fervor dream, the mess in the bathroom, the lit cigarette — all forgotten as the woman who had been in his bed earlier made her way over to him. Where she had gone, he didn’t know, and he didn’t bother to ask. She could go where she wished whenever she pleased, and as opposed to earlier, he found himself glad that she was still here. He needed a soft body to fuck into, someone to submit to him rather than give him a fight.

Her soft blonde hair was brushed out and gleaming, resembling a halo around her angular, beautiful face. Her lips were swollen from the night before, and her pale neck was covered in bruises, and he wondered if the spot where he had bitten down hard enough to draw blood still was as raw as it was. She wasn’t wearing anything but a thin tank top and boxer shorts, and he briefly wondered why she didn’t seem to be as bothered by the cold as he was. What was her name again? Lys? Lysa? Whatever it was, he finished off the last few moments of his cigarette before beckoning for her to straddle his lap. She had seemed to be looking for an invitation, and her unfathomably dark gaze lit up when he did.

Wordlessly, she complied, her dark eyes then roaming across his face. As he took another pull from the bottle and set it down upon the nightstand, she drew her soft thumb down the cut in his lip, looking at it with curiosity. Nevertheless, the look fled as she decided asking about it wasn’t quite so worth it him getting worked up in a _different_ way, choosing instead to lean forward and link their lips together in a soft kiss that quickly turned more animalistic thanks to him not wanting to waste any time. His hands slide up her waist, underneath her shirt, cupping her soft breasts to occupy his restlessness. If she found the fresh wounds on his knuckles odd, she didn’t say anything, and instead released a shuddering gasp against his lips as she pulled back for a breath of air.

All that had plagued his mind had become forgotten, lost to the damage that clung to him like a stubborn burr, as the man with no name settled for the beautiful girl in his lap and the alcohol clutched loosely in his hand, choosing to let the life that called to him so desperately, go.

**Author's Note:**

> & if it wasn't obvious enough, the character centric memory order is barry, claire, jill, wesker, & then piers. steve, rebecca, joseph, forest, and finn are also hinted at!


End file.
